


If You're Sure

by ceywoozle



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, s04e20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Wendell have always connected, now they're just connecting a little further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Sure

The first time Jack Hodgins and Wendell Bray have sex is after a woman is found, pressed between sheets of cardboard, an angel traced in blood. It’s after Angela walks away and Hodgins doesn’t stop her. After Hodgins has realised that he doesn’t even know if he had wanted to.

Neither of them know where it had started, even afterwards when they’re slick with sweat and saliva and grinning wondering grins at each other from inches away. Wendell didn’t think about it when he invited Hodgins out for drinks that night. “There are girls,” he’ll say, because that’s what one says to a man who needs a break. “Just some friends.” _N_ _o pressure._ Even then there isn’t an ounce of deceit in the statement, because despite the rush of his own blood when it happens, he recognises Jack’s joyous grin for what it is. Guileless, friendly. It doesn’t occur to him that he might be wrong.

Jack is not a stupid man, and he’s not a naive man. He lacks the self-effacement of a Wendell Bray, and when he grins, though it is certainly friendly, there is a test in it too, and a question, that he thinks is answered in the slight flush of that pale Anglo countenance, cheeks that blush too easily in delicious uneven streaks. Hodgins surprises even himself in his sudden desire to run a finger over them and feel their heat. He’s been here before and he wonders if Wendell has, as well. If the man edging out of boyhood recognises Jack’s bright look for what it is.

When he decides to go that night, blacking the screen on Angela’s familiar face, smiling up at him from his phone, it is with the knowledge of where he will end up.

And walking into the bar, seeing the brief parting of lips that indicate surprise, pleasure, words about to be said and then damped, Hodgins meets Wendell’s eyes and can feel his own face turn red. All of a sudden, now that he’s here, he feels a fool.

He takes a chair on the other end of the table from Wendell, unsure of what he’s trying to accomplish. He flickers glances as women talk to him, beautiful women, young women, intelligent women. They are talking and he is half responding but he knows he is distracted at best and he knows that he keeps looking at Wendell, watching the slow progression of that uneven blush slowly overtake his young face. More and more, as the night progresses and the drinks line up, Wendell’s eyes stray in turn to where Hodgins is staring, unashamedly staring. And when Sarah gets up to go to the washroom, Wendell isn’t even surprised when Hodgins suddenly appears in her seat, at his right side, and Wendell is aware of the rush of blood, hot and noisy in his head, as one knee bumps deliberately against his own.

They don’t say anything, but Wendell is flushed and his lips are parted as he tries to breathe steadily and it is hard, oh god so hard to keep his eyes up and meeting Jack’s. They flicker away constantly as he feels the baring of his soul in the wide luminescence of his expression, and he can’t quite handle the idea of shining that light into someone else’s face yet, afraid of what it will illuminate.

And Jack, all doubt gone with the first drink, is watching him, wide eyes obscenely blue, and something that is not quite a smile on his open face.

When Wendell gets up, a mumbled excuse about the washroom, he doesn’t know what he’s hoping for, what it is he’s trying to escape: the staring public of the bar; Hodgins; himself. But he gets up and walks away, hyper aware of every step, of every minute movement of his body. He knows Hodgins is watching him and he tries not to look stupid but he doesn’t quite remember how to do that. When he turns the corner to the small hallway where the washrooms are he is relieved to be out of that line of sight, and when he slips through that welcoming door he can feel himself once more able to breathe.

He takes longer than he needs, staring at himself in the mirror, at the splotched redness on his fair skin. He fixes his hair and hates it, so musses it again and hates it still. He splashes water on his face to cool it and can feel the drops clinging and drying, fluoride and chlorine pulling at the tissue of his flesh and making it stiff. He straightens his shirt and loosens his belt one notch. He fixes his hair again and this time leaves it.

When he leaves the washroom, Hodgins is there, waiting outside the door like a cat prepared to pounce, and Wendell doesn’t even pause, doesn’t resist when he feels the hands coming up to grip his neck. He closes his eyes, grateful for the privacy of his own blindness when narrow lips find his and press in, pleading and pressuring, and he gives in because he wants to.

They taste like beer and salt and sweat, and it’s Wendell who is the first to push his tongue past the flimsy barrier of lips and teeth, finding the hotter places behind, tasting the depths to which he will be allowed to go. Jack, with a moan, exchanges Wendell’s tongue for his own and there is only the slippery heat of skin and saliva and Wendell is aware of hands on him, his neck, his arms, his chest, of the hot press of skin that isn’t his own. he’s aware of his own hands sliding down a straight back and finding the curve behind the hips, takes incredible satisfaction at the noise that Hodgins makes when he squeezes.

It’s the sound of surprised laughter that brings them back from the edge, that has them both open-mouthed and panting, eyes hooded and glazed, suddenly aware of Sarah, standing in the hallway with her eyes bright and laughing and her hands covering her mouth.

“Shit, sorry,” she says, and doesn’t sound sorry at all. "Carry on, don’t mind me,” and she slips past them back into the bar where the light and the noise, suddenly intruding, swallow her up.

For a moment there is silence between them. Jack’s hands are still clutched in the collar of Wendell’s shirt. Wendell’s hands are still clenched around Jack’s buttocks. And when Jack finally moves, it is to burst out laughing, his head falling forward to press against Wendell’s chest, his breathless giggles muffled in Wendell’s shirt. Wendell can only stare, too surprised by himself to laugh yet, not sure what to think yet, how to feel. But he’s incredibly aware of his erection, unabated by the interruption, pressing into the tight space between them, and he’s even more aware of Jack’s, settled in a hard line in the crease of his hip.

They both retreat to the bathroom, together but not touching. They douse themselves, cold water and calming thoughts. Hodgins talks determinedly about maggots and Wendell listens, interjecting appropriate noises to show that he is appreciative, but unable to speak yet, his lips clamped tight over teeth and tongue, still tasting Hodgins in his mouth.

When they are finally able to leave the bathroom, it’s to find the table quickly emptying. Coats being gathered, the happy chatter of friends at the end of a good night. Sarah gives them a sly look but no one else seems aware, and when Hodgins flags down a cab, there is only the slightest hesitation before Wendell gets in behind him.

The ride is silent. Wendell’s place is closer. neither of them talk until the driver pulls up beside the seedy apartment building, and even then it is only brief cut off words.

“You want—?” Wendell says with a brief gesture, and Hodgins’ entire face seems to light from the inside, from those incandescent eyes, huge and wide and blue.

“If you’re—” Hodgins says.

“Yeah,” Wendell interrupts. And for the first time that night he doesn’t look away from the expression in Hodgins’ face. “I’m sure.”

The elevator is broken and the climb to the fifth floor seems interminable. There is no sound in the stairwell except for their breath, panting out each floor as it passes, both of them more breathless than they should be when they reach the top and they pass into the muffled quiet of the carpeted hall.

They don’t speak, they don’t touch. There are stains on the floor and on the walls, but the doors are solid wood, relics from an age in construction when things were meant to last, and when they reach the scratched and beaten surface of number 4, Wendell stops and unlocks it with a hand that won’t stay steady. He almost laughs at himself when it takes multiple attempts to fit the key in the narrow hole, but beside him Jack gives a quiet huff of laughter, a distinctly nervous sound, and when he raises a hand to help, Wendell notices that Jack’s hand is shaking almost as much as his own. It actually helps, and on the next attempt he gets the key in, and breathless, unbelievably slow, the door to his apartment opens and they are inside.

There is a frisson of fear in the air, a nervous tension as Wendell leads the way in and he hears Hodgins close and lock the door behind him. It is a small and worn space, but sparsely furnished and neat. The beaten hardwood is scratched and almost worn past its staining, but it's clean, and there are rugs, laid out, relieving its stark nudity. The kitchen is little more than a narrow hallway to the right, and Wendell turns into it, going to the fridge where he pulls out two beers without asking Jack if he wants one. He opens them deftly and passes one wordlessly to Hodgins who takes it and raises it to his lips like a man dying of thirst. They stand there in the kitchen, drinking too fast, and only stop when their bottles are empty. Wendell is already reaching to the fridge for another round when a hand is clamped down on his arm, stopping him, and Wendell forces himself to look up, to meet that look in Jack’s eye and give it back.

“Are you sure?” Jack says, and his face, his voice is filled with earnest reassurance. _It_ _’s okay. We can stop. Don’t be scared. This won’t be your fault._

And Wendell is too afraid to say he wants to keep going, the incandescence of his own emotions choking him and spilling from him, his entire body tightly contained in its space. He feels like he will fly apart if he speaks, so he doesn’t. Just takes that step towards Hodgins and closes the last of the distance between them. It’s impossible to tell who kisses who first.

There is no accurate record of what happens next in Wendell’s head, though afterwards Jack will show him with an uninhibited grin all the bruises on his body from that first furious fumble against the stove, the red line where the counter had bit into his back. Wendell won’t remember doing that, but he will remember the stumbling journey to the bedroom, tripping over pants and underwear and socks, the frustrated muffling of shirts and jackets, hurriedly and imperfectly shed.

He won’t remember falling onto the hard mattress of his bed with Jack on top of him, straddling him with his knees on either side of his hips, but he will remember that voice, low and hoarse and earnest, unheard before, murmuring pleas into Wendell’s ear. He won’t remember who touched who first, but he will remember the hot fire of Jack’s blue eyes when Wendell slips a tentative hand between them, a single finger pressing in under Jack's testicles to find the heated darkness that lay behind them. He won’t remember the sharp snap of teeth, biting into his lips, but he will remember the taste of cooper that accompanies the gripping warmth of Jack’s hand, thrusting in a fist over their cocks, pressed against each other in a single heated line.

He won’t remember how it happens, but he will remember coming, the surprised sound of his own shout, loud and unmuffled in the usually silent space of his bedroom. He will remember the feeling of release, of relief, and he will remember the heat of Jack’s own come, spattering in hot streaks a moment later and mixing with his own.

And afterwards, breathless and broken on the narrow bed, he will remember the smile Hodgins had given him, of wonder and joy and fulfilment. And he will remember his own face, trying to crack itself in two, no longer capable of holding back.


End file.
